


The Warmest Hello

by curtsbuttonupshirts



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Compulsory Heterosexuality, Drama & Romance, Extramarital Affairs, First Love, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23151358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtsbuttonupshirts/pseuds/curtsbuttonupshirts
Summary: “I want to be in the field again,” He stated, all of the boldness and courage flowing out of him, leaving nothing but the plain facts. “I want to be a spy again.”“Why,” Cynthia asked, reaching for something in her pocket.“I - well.” He swallowed, not quite expecting to have to answer this question. “It just doesn't feel right to not be in the field. I - I miss it, I guess. I miss travelling, and fighting, and all of it.”“What, married life isn’t enough for you?” She asked, scornfully, and Curt’s eyes fell to his ring.“Well, you know what they say about your first love,” He answered, and she made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff.Alternate Universe where Curt remained a lone agent for most of his career, and never met Owen. So, Owen never "died". Curt also never realized he was gay (or at least, acknowledged it), and got married as expected of a man his age at the time. What follows is the story of what happens when he does eventually meet Owen and comes to the very abrupt realization that his life is built on a lie.
Relationships: Agent Curt Mega & Tatiana Slozhno, Barb Lavernor & Agent Curt Mega, Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	The Warmest Hello

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't tagged because anyone searching for it will be bitterly disappointed because this pairing will know nothing but pain in this fic, but this fic contains Barb/Curt. Clock the compulsory heterosexuality tag.

_McLean Home - March, 1961_

Domesticity looked wrong on Curt Mega.

Well, wrong might not be the best descriptor, but it wrapped around him like an ill-fitted suit. The arms were too long, flooding his cuff and hiding his wrists like a child; the material was too tight on his arms, bunching at the joints; and the waist gave too much, creating a pillow effect.

Although - he thought, interrupting that runaway simile, and frowning - when he ran his hands over his softening middle, he doubted that there would be many suits that were too loose in the waist. He was always sort of built like a brick shithouse, which made him broader and thicker than many of his contemporaries, but he had packed on a few too many pounds in the years since he married.

Desk duty and too many home cooked meals - a deadly combination.

And maybe it wasn’t domesticity that looked so bad - maybe it was just the fact that, for the last four years, he hadn’t so much as stepped outside of Virginia, aside from brief jaunts to D.C. Curt Mega was not born to sit behind a desk, doing paperwork that was the very definition of the word _boring_ \- and that must be what felt so jarring when he thought about life.

This suit really didn’t fit, though. He sighed and slipped the jacket off his shoulders. It was one of his favorites. It was getting old, though, and maybe it was time he refreshed his wardrobe soon - new decade, new fashions afterall. He used to care so much about his appearance, but he had gotten downright slobbish these last few years. He even had a thick spattering of facial hair darkening his jaw - never before had he allowed even a shadow fall over his cheeks.

He ran a finger down his jawline, feeling the coarse hairs pushing back, prickly against his skin. On second thought, maybe it looked good? He turned his head and looked at himself in the mirror, jutting his jaw out to get a better look at the coverage. If he cleaned it up, he could start growing a beard - everyone said they were coming back in, after all.

The more he preened in the mirror, the more convinced he got that it would be a good idea. He grinned lazily to himself, happy and confident in his new decision. He stroked his chin, imagining how suave and reckless he’d look with a nice beard. In the harsh bathroom light, his wedding ring glinted, and his pride came down a peg as he realized that his appearance wasn’t _entirely_ his own anymore.

He leaned out of the bathroom door and looked up and down the hall of the modest home he had bought just a short drive from Langley. He didn’t see his spouse - although that probably would have been a little _too_ easy - but he could hear the sound of the record player wafting from the kitchen and underneath it, he could hear the sound of metal clashing against metal.

After running a quick hand through his hair, Curt left the bathroom to seek out a second opinion, following the sounds of The Beatles.

“Would you still love me if I grew a beard?” Curt mused as he entered the kitchen, and Barbara blinked up from whatever gadget she was working on. They had a large, beautiful kitchen, but it was used much more often to cook up machines and devices than to cook up meals - at least, by Barb’s hand. Curt had gotten quite good at cooking, if he did say so himself.

Barb smiled softly at him, wiping her oil stained hands on a towel. Curt lazily grinned at her, the way he had grinned at himself just a few moments ago and nonchalantly leaned against the door frame. Her hands clean, Barb approached him and held his face in her hands, still smiling softly at him.

“Oh Curt - I’ll always love you,” She said, and Curt preened. “But if you grow a beard, I’ll divorce you quicker than you can say Central Intelligence Agency.”

She leaned up to give him a peck on his lips and then patted his jaw fondly, before going back to her tools. He just frowned at her, disgruntled.

“That seems like an overreaction,” He muttered, and she shook her head primly.

“It really isn’t, sweetie.” He sighed, and turned back to the bathroom to shave, locking away his dreams of having a rockin’ beard. She just didn’t understand him, that’s all.

As he shaved, he returned to the thoughts he had before he had been derailed by fantasies of facial fleece - desk work, and the gigantic bore it was. It had been four years since his last mission, since that disastrous mission in Russia, where he was just barely saved by Barb. The gunshot wounds in his side had healed well, although they left a somewhat nasty scar.

Thinking about the mission left a sour taste in his mouth, and he glared at his reflection. The mission had been a total bust - his first in his career - and it left him with nothing but a scarred side, a desk-duty-induced-gut, and Cynthia’s scorn. Well, more of her scorn than he already had. Luckily, the sect he was infiltrating fizzled out without any real danger, so his massive failure didn’t hurt anyone. It still stung, thinking about it though, and he wished there was another timeline that he hadn’t been assigned such a clusterfuck.

His wedding band glinted in the bathroom light again, and his stomach dropped out of guilt as he remembered the _other_ thing he got out of that mission. Between the last minute save, and the way she nursed him back to health afterwards, he and Barb had become good friends. She had loved him so obviously, and he was so grateful, so he asked her to marry him, his mother’s prodding for him to get married echoing in his head. Love obviously wasn’t real, or at least wasn’t something men felt, so he didn’t have that sort of attachment to Barb, but she was a cool gal, and wicked smart. He could have picked worse women to eventually settle with.

He finally washed his face, all of his stubble disappearing down the drain. _Curt Mega,_ he thought, looking at himself in the mirror again, _you are clean-shaven man again._

He felt a nostalgic pang as he stared upon his baby-smooth visage. He hadn’t been so clean-shaven since he was a spy, and god, he _missed_ it. It had been four years. Had that not been long enough? Cynthia would _surely_ forgive him by now, right?

That was laughable. Cynthia didn’t forgive. She wrote down every single transgression anyone had ever faulted against her, and beside the heinous crime that they commited, she would write what death she thought seemed fit for punishment, and she read that file to bed every night, and if she had kids (Curt genuinely did not know) she’d read it as a lullaby.

Or, at least, Curt was convinced that was true.

But a spy was a spy - and he was ready to be a spy again.

“Barbara!” He called back down the hall, waiting until he heard a _hm?_ In response. “We need to go shopping!”

* * *

_Cynthia’s office, Langley - March 1961_

Cynthia’s glare never got easier to face.

Sure, Curt had over a decade’s worth of experience dealing with it at this point, but she could cut people with that look. It shook the confidence he had been building over the last 24 hours; he had a nice suit on, he had talked it over with Barb, and he had been making lists for reasons why she should let him back on the field, and he had even checked them twice!

But one look, and all that confidence disappeared.

“I’ll have to get back to you, Mr. Vice President. Remember what I said, you know, about not being a crook? Work on that - okay, bye bye,” She said into the phone, the amiable tone of her voice contrasted with the ice of her glare. She gestured for him to sit down with her free hand, and Curt did, nervously tugging on his tie knot as he did.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, just barging in my office like this, Mega?” She asked, lighting a cigarette. “Do you want tea? There is a right answer.”

“No - wait, yes, wait -” Curt stumbled, his carefully laid plans already crumbling. He had practiced all of his life and career to be suave and smooth and prepared, and hardly anything shook him anymore. But he would never be able to compete with Cynthia.

She rolled her eyes and waved a hand in the air, signalling that he should shut up. She blew a puff of smoke into the air, and Curt thought about how much she looked like a dragon.

“I see you’re as useless as always, Mega,” She said acerbically, and Curt winced. He wondered what it would be like to make her happy, just once. She called for a morning tea, and Susan called out an affirmative. They sat in silence as she took another drag of her cigarette. Susan brought out the coffee and she blew the smoke in Curt’s face.

“So?” She said, as it dissipated, waiting for the exact second that Curt picked up his cup of coffee to ask. There was a strange sweetness to the coffee, but her question kept him from thinking too much on it.

“I want to be in the field again,” He stated, all of the boldness and courage flowing out of him, leaving nothing but the plain facts. “I want to be a spy again.”

“Why,” she asked, reaching for something in her pocket.

“I - well.” He swallowed, not quite expecting to have to answer this question. “It just doesn't feel right to not be in the field. I - I miss it, I guess. I miss travelling, and fighting, and all of it.”

“What, married life isn’t enough for you?” She asked, scornfully, and Curt’s eyes fell to his ring.

“Well, you know what they say about your first love,” He answered, and she made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff.

“Mega, first of all, you’re drinking poisoned tea,” She started. Curt spit out a mouthful and she glanced at the liquid disdainfully while Susan quickly stepped forward to dry it with a rag. “Second of all, you’re flabby, out of experience, and you got other things to worry about, meaning you’re a liability in the field and out. You can’t be a honeypot anymore, you can’t spend months under deep cover, and if you die, I have to deal with Barbara crying in my office. Tell me why you suck so much for the antidote.”

“I-I’m fat, lazy and-and a liability, Barb is annoying” He gasped, reaching for the small vial she held in her hand. She rolled her eyes and let him take it. He threw liquid contained in the vial back, and confusion washed over him as he recognized the taste of rum.

“I lied, it wasn’t poisoned, it just had a fuck ton of sugar in it,” she said, shrugging. “I wanted you to internalize how bad of an idea putting you back in the field would be.”

“I get it,” He said, glowering at the coffee in his hands. Cynthia stared at him for a second before sighing. She leaned over to open a drawer and pulled out a file, which she unceremoniously dropped on the desk.

“Lucky for you, the President has decided that it was absolutely crucial that we build closer ties with our allies’ secret services, starting with MI6, and I was being forced to bring you back in the field anyway.”

She gestured towards the file, and Curt took turns looking from her to the file before he excitedly sat up. He placed the coffee to the side and gleefully opened the first case file he had held in his hands in four years. He scanned them quickly, trying to get the bare bones before addressing Cynthia again.

“So, what does this mean?” He asked, skimming over the words _Monte Carlo_ , _Infiltrate_ , _Reconnaissance_ , _Nazis,_ and most notably, the name, _Owen Carvour._

“It means you’re going to be working with one of the best MI6 agents in the world to infiltrate some sort of cult or sect with possible Nazi ties in Monaco, and that’s where you’ll figure out what the fuck is going on, and assess the threat,” She said, rolling her eyes and ashing her cigarette. “Your partner will have more information and ideas - we were just given the bare minimum.”

“If this is one of the cases that MI6 is letting us butt in on, it must be important, huh?” Curt asked, still looking at the name, as if it would summon the man if he looked at it long enough. “Especially if this guy is as good as you say.”

“Oh, he is _that_ good,” Cynthia said, almost in admiration of this mysterious man. Curt blinked up at her, feeling a little amazed someone could inspire that tone in her, and maybe a little jealous that it hadn’t been him to do it.

“But for whatever reason, Agent Carvour has lost standing with his agency and has gotten the shit detail, and this mission is probably bullshit. They suspect Hitler’s insane nephew is behind it, and he quite frankly is looney tunes, so this is probably just MI6 making fun of President Kennedy,” She said, and Curt deflated a little.

“What did he do, to lose favor?” Curt asked, and Cynthia shrugged.

“I don’t give a shit about gossip, and you shouldn’t either, that isn’t what is important. What _is_ important, however, is that this should be a simple mission that even you can’t fuck up. We’ll consider it your trial run, and in the meantime you can pretend to be a spy again and quench your taste. If you do a decent job, I’ll consider putting you on full time again,” She said.

Curt nodded, stuffing his disappointment away. It had been four years, and he probably did need to ease his way back into this mess. He couldn’t help but be curious about this Owen character.

Cynthia snapped her fingers, and his eyes jerked back up to her. “C’mon Mega, eyes on the prize here, okay? I need you to take this seriously, you chucklefuck.”

Curt glanced at the file one last time, and then closed the file.

“Thank you, Cynthia,” He said, nodding. “Eyes on the prize.”

**Author's Note:**

> hi i'm expressing both my broken heart and repression in this story so enjoy.
> 
> If you're morally against cheating you probably won't like this story (although I don't blame you) because cheating will absolutely occur. But the ending will probably be happy for everyone involved and like, I won't portray it as a good thing.
> 
> Shoutout to everyone whose reaction to "Made in America" from Black Friday was to say that it wasn't the Spies Are Forever sequel that we wanted.


End file.
